


This is not Love

by Jamcub



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Attempts of Drowning, Force-Feeding, Forced Oral, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Watersports, but will have one soon, has no plot yet, it's Strade please keep this in mind, tags will be updated as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamcub/pseuds/Jamcub
Summary: Post-Survival route ending. Somewhat based on the book 'Misery' by Stephen King as far as general plot goes.Written entirely in first person, and please heed the warnings.





	1. Not a love Story, either

**Author's Note:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter are:  
> \- blunt trauma to limbs  
> \- force-feeding and vomit  
> \- gagging/torture to a lesser degree

It’s not comfortable, but it’ll make do. 

You’ll get used to anything. Humans are very adaptable, you soon learned, with a lot of not-so gentle encouragement from your captor.  Things could be worse, too, you muse quietly as you pull the too-thin blanket tighter around your legs. Your foot still throbs whenever you move it, and you still can’t walk very long without having to rely on him. And you don’t want that, of course. But it could be worse. 

You could be dead.

You hear his steps before anything else, boots thrumming against the metal staircase. He’s given you his own room, but it’s hardly much better than the other basement with the pole in it. You sit up a little straighter; you know he likes it when you pay attention to him. The door opens, but he doesn’t step in.

“Hey there, buddy. Sleep well?” Strade’s leaning against the doorway, and with a sigh of relief, you realise his hands are empty. Your grip on the blanket relaxes a little. “You’ve been out like a light since last night, Schatz.” He says, shifting his weight against the frame a little.

Too late you realise he wants a response of some kind, and the strangled ‘Y-yes?’ you provide has him furrow his brow for a moment. His usual sickening smile soon replaces it, though, leaving you no less anxious however. “I was a little busy, but now you’ve got me all to yourself, dear.”

The pet names make your stomach churn, a sickening feeling spreading through your body. Or maybe it’s the fact you haven’t eaten anything since the evening before, and being locked up in a dark cellar isn’t doing anything to help. You lick your lips; you’re thirsty too. Strade takes a step closer, leaning forward to inspect you closer.

“Hm, you took last night better than I expected, too.” His hand, with rough, calloused fingers, grasps your chin, forcing it up and you to look at him. The metal collar around your neck is still where he’s left it, of course. You’ve tried taking it off before, but bloody nails and bitter tears had you stop soon enough.

“I’m glad I kept you around.” He sounds jovial, getting up and turning his back on you. “I knew you’d make a lovely pet.” You watch his back, suddenly wishing you had a knife to plunge into it. Your hands tug on the fabric of your covers instead. It’s chilly in the cellar, since the room you’re in doesn’t have a heater, and the fact you’re stark naked save for the metal collar doesn’t help. You shiver, scooting up against the wall, away from him.

“Now, tonight I’ll be gentle. Don’t want to break you too fast, you know.” Strade explains, taking a look around the room. It’s the way he’s left it the night before: Empty, cramped, and cold, with nothing but the mattress, pillow and cover as far as furniture goes. “I want to make you last.”

You pull the covers tighter around your shoulders, shivering again. This can’t mean anything good. Your foot throbs suddenly, and you make a small noise of discomfort. Strade turns back around.

“Your foot again?” He asks, his voice thick with fake concern. You nod, biting your tongue. Strade smiles, a little too wide to be comfortable, and steps back over to you. “I keep forgetting about it. Here. Let me help…”

Before you can even think, he’s lifted his boot, stomping it down on your foot with force. His heel grinds into the still fresh wound. You scream in pain, hot tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, soon streaming down your cheeks. Strade looks exhilarated, and you’re appalled to see the front of his pants tenting out slightly. “That’s the spirit.” He croons, licking his lips, and turns away again. His voice lowers.

“You’ve got a nerve complaining about that…” For a moment, he sounds upset. “When there’s so much worse - where was I now? Ah.”

You’re left clutching your foot, whimpering quietly through clenched teeth, while Strade seems to be looking for something in his pockets. When he’s found it, he makes a small aha-noise, pulling it out.

“There we go.” He holds it up for you to see. It’s a gag, apparently a spreader of some kind, with two metal pieces meant to keep a mouth open. Strade chuckles at you. “Never seen one of those before?” He asks, kneeling down before you again. “I’ll show you, don’t worry.”

Strade puts the gag on quickly, making sure it’s secured against your mouth and tightened enough to keep you from closing your mouth with a tug on the leather. It’s tight, the metal is cool and tastes strange on your tongue, and the tearing sensation on the corners of your mouth makes you cringe. You can feel your gag reflex protesting against something being shoved into your mouth, but force the feeling of sickness back down. The last thing you need is for you to throw up on his hands and possibly upset him more yet.

“Great! I thought it’d fix your, uh, disposition too.  _ Smile _ !” He teases, giving your nose a playful flick. You recoil, expecting the worst, but he just dusts off his hands, fishing something else from his pockets.

“Hungry?”

Another energy bar. That’s all he’s been feeding you since you came here, that and stale beer or equally disgusting water that he seems to keep around just for the purpose of tormenting you. Your stomach growls, and you nod, unable to make much noise outside of ‘hmmhm’ either way. Strade seems content though, unwrapping the bar and breaking a piece off for you. Of course, you can’t really chew, either, which leaves you trying to awkwardly force the pieces he’s feeding you down your throat, choking and coughing after every bite.

Strade watches you struggle with the bar, crumbling up the wrapper and stuffing it into one of his pockets when you’re finally done. His fingers are still a little sticky, and you feel the residue of honey and sugar on your cheek when he strokes it roughly. “Good, good. Feeling any better yet?”

You nod. You actually  _ do  _ feel better with something in your stomach now, even though fear and nausea makes it hard to enjoy it very much. Strade at least seems pleased, though, shifting on the floor a little. “Good! See, I told you you’d get used to this in no time. You’re making progress.” He wipes his fingers on the front of his shirt with a frown. “Anyway.”

When he rises this time, it’s to undo his belt and the zipper of his pants, pulling out his half-erect cock. You recoil, but he reaches down to twist his hand into your hair, yanking you forward. It hurts, but you’re out of tears to cry. The metal  in the corners of your mouth stings when you move, and you choke back tears. Strade watches you as you try to get comfortable between his legs. He’s flushed bright red, and panting like a dog, urging you to go on.

“Cmon,  _ pet _ , you can do it.” He whispers hoarsely, forcing your to take all of him with a jerk of his hand. His nails scrape over your scalp, tearing and ripping at your hair roughly. It’s clear he has little regard for your feelings, aiming only to satisfy himself.

The head of his cock hits the back of your throat quite suddenly, forcing you to retch, bile rising up from your stomach. You can feel him fucking your throat relentlessly, ramming into you with his fingers still twisted in your hair to keep you steady. Each thrust hits the back of your throat, your stomach churning in an effort to keep barely-digested food down.

The third time he rams himself deeper into you, you can’t help it. You retch and choke, tasting bile on your tongue. It’s mostly stomach acids, dribbling out of the corners of your mouth mixed with pre and saliva. Strade doesn’t seem to mind your heaving, his hold only getting tighter, to the point you could swear he’s tearing out your hair by the bushel.

“T-that’s it, yeah.” His speech is slurred, his accent getting worse. “ _ Du kleine Schlampe, kotz mir ja nicht vor - vor die Füße _ .” He growls in his native language, and you don’t need to understand what he’s saying to be terrified. You swallow around his dick, forcing yourself to be calm and still  as he continues to force himself into you.

For what feels like an eternity that’s all there is - choking and tears and his cock filling your mouth and forcing your tongue down. You find yourself wishing he’d cum already, each thrust, each yank of your hair making it harder to stay quiet. He’s muttering under his breath, slurred German mixed with bad English. What little you can make out doesn’t make you feel any better. If only- 

Strade’s cum is bitter and salty and you struggle to swallow it all when he comes. He pulls out too early, and most of it spills on you and your makeshift bed, but you’re thankful for the break regardless. He is rather… excitable, you know this much, and consider yourself happy that’s all he’s decided to do to you tonight.

You can’t feel your tongue, and the salty taste of cum is all you can focus on. Strade loosens the grip on your hair, taking a sizable amount of it with him. “Not bad.” 

The gag is removed, and you reach up to wipe the disgusting mix of cum, saliva and bille off your lips with the back of your hand. Strade watches you, zipping up his pants quietly. “I swear, you better not barf on me. You won’t like me when I’m  _ mad  _ with you, buddy.” He repeats, a hand running through his hair. “Although, it’s probably my fault. I shouldn’t feed you before playtime anymore. Oops. Didn’t think of that.”

You watch him smooth out his shirt, his cheeks still tinged pink, his hair even more of a mess than usual. He’s been kind enough to you tonight, and you wonder whether he expects some kind of response from you at all. You quietly clear your throat when he turns to leave.

“...yeah?” Strade pauses, looking over his shoulder. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Thank you?” You offer in a voice that’s hoarse from how little it’s been used, for lack of anything else to say. Strade smiles, his usual disgusting smirk that has you feeling even sicker than before. He heads back to tousle your hair, giving it a small tug. You wince.

“Ah, that’s nice…  _ nice _ , good pet. Good job. Anyway, I have to go.” Strade clicks his tongue. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright.”

Strade’s boots head upstairs again. You’re left in a puddle of various fluids, trying to find a spot that doesn’t have your entire leg throb in dull pain. When you do fall asleep, it’s restless and short, and full of nightmares.


	2. On-Camera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot is here, sort of. Turns out it's hard to write Strade when he is not aiming to kill, just maim enough to make a point, since I feel he's always so close to snapping either way. (I'm looking at you, game.)  
> I actually have a plot in mind for this, so the next chapter will be less porn without plot-ish, hopefully. Fo now though, enjoy me trying to make point.  
> (As usual, read the chapter notes for warnings, please. Please.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter are:  
> \- watersports  
> \- voyeurism (does being recorded count?)

“Good morning.” A kick to your leg accompanies the phrase.  
You jolt awake, blinking up towards his face smiling at you in the darkness of the room. Strade’s smile always has an unsettling edge to it, but it’s a lot worse suspended above you in the dark, you find.  
“Sleep well?”  
You nod, shifting a little on the mattress. It’s still sticky with fluids, and you can still feel your leg dully throbbing every time you move. But you suppose it was… decent. As good as it was going to get, anyway.  
Strade runs a hand through his hair, which is even more oily today than usual, and tugs off your blanket. A cool breeze brushes over your skin and you shudder, which prompts him to laugh.  
“I’ve got a surprise for you today, buddy. It’s gonna be fun.”  
You’re pretty sure you want to hear none of it, but you nod again, for lack of anything else to do. Strade licks his lips, leaning forward to push an arm under your body, hoisting you up. He flings you over his shoulder, like a bag of potatoes, and you wonder if this is how you ended up in this predicament in the first place.  
“See, the problem is - I haven’t been going out as much.” He starts talking while carrying you about. This close to him, you can smell a mix of motor oil, sweat and copper on him. You shudder in disgust.  
“Means less business for me, which means less money for everyone.” Strade carries you out of the little room that you call yours back into the cramped space of his actual basement. The one with the pole in it. Today, though, a couple more items are there - a laptop, and a chair that looks like he made it himself. He sits you down in the chair, then rolls up his sleeves one by one.  
“And that’s a problem.” He concludes, dusting his hands off with hum. “If you wanna live here, you’ll need to pull your own weight, Schatzi. I can’t do everything for you.”  
The basement is still chilly, like you remember it, but the familiarity is doing nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. Your foot stings painfully when you catch a glimpse of a drill placed next to the laptop on the table.  
“You’re gonna love this.” Strade promises, opening a drawer to take out a length of cable. “We’ll just need to … secure you, and I’ll fetch… something. Here.”  
The cable is rough on your already sore wrists as he ties you down on the chair. It’s not like you’d be able to get very far either way, what with your foot still in shreds, but you keep your mouth shut. Strade finishes his work with the same saccharine smile as always.  
“Great! Excuse me for a moment, will you.”  
You have no choice other than watch him run back upstairs, listening to his boots on the metal staircase. You’re wondering what he is trying to do, and whether it’d be worse than what he’s already done to you. Was that even possible to begin with?  
Before you can finish your train of thought though, Strade returns, a piece of black cloth tied around his face. It’s got a sloppy imprint of a skull on it and would make him look a little ridiculous in any other circumstance.  
“There we go.” His thumb runs over the smooth edge of his hunting knife, moving the blade so it catches the light from overhead. “Now…”  
Strade flicks the light off, instead turning on the laptop on the edge of the table. A small red light at the top of the screen tells you he’s recording both you and him. Dread quickly spreads from the pit of your stomach. Enduring all this is one thing, but being filmed another entirely.  
At least he’s put the knife away for now.  
“I’m not gonna kill you, you know. I know my limits. I’m not an idiot… Heh.” He’s still playing with the knife. “But blood pays well, you see. We’ll have to cut at least a little.”  
You freeze up. He turns, making sure he’s got you both on camera, before pulling up his leg and forcing his knee between your legs on the chair. Your head is forced forward, and he undoes his zipper with one hand.  
“Alright, now…” By the time he’s pulled out his half-erect cock, you’ve made the connection, trying to pull away your head, close your mouth, anything to avoid this-  
His hand digs into your hair again, yanking you down roughly.  
“Listen, you little bitch.” He sneers, his usual honey sweetness gone in a flash. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I’ll get what I want, even if I have to drill it into you.”  
You cry out when his blunt nails scrape over your scalp, opening your mouth slowly. You do not want to see or hear the drill ever again; just the thought sends agony coursing through your foot.  
“Better.” Strade forces himself into your mouth, and with a groan relieves himself down your throat. Warm, rancid piss streams into your mouth and down your throat, but you dare not move or try to spit it out for fear of incurring his wrath again.  
“Now, swallow.” It’s clear he won’t let you disobey, but the taste is just too bad, and you end up spitting up most of it, into your lap and onto him. His grip in your hair tightens, and you feel yourself being slammed against the chair, your head snapping back violently.  
“Can’t take it?” He sneers, still smiling, always smiling, smiling, while he keeps your head pinned back, the taste of his urine still on your tongue. “Aw, too bad. I’d hoped you’d be thirsty, but we can change plans. I’m flexible, don’t worry.”  
His grip lets up, he gets up and walks around the room. It’s dark save for the laptop screen, but a small noise tells you he’s picked his knife back up. When he comes back, the blade is pressed against your neck, just above the metal collar.. You can feel it dig in, warm blood seeping out of the shallow cut, mixing with the thin layer of sweat coating your skin.  
“As I said, we’ll have to draw blood.” He whispers, hoarsely. It’s clear how much he is enjoying the show he’s putting on. “Since you want to be difficult - but that’s okay. It’s fine.”  
The knife moves further down, leaving a thin line in its wake. “Do you know what I think of you?” Strade suddenly asks, and a million words threaten to spill from your tongue at once. You speak none of them, waiting for him to go on instead.  
“I asked a question. Would you be so kind as to reply?” The knife digs in deeper, and you wince. Sweat beads on your forehead.  
“I- I don’t… know...” You stammer, shaking visibly. Strade’s smile gets even wider, gleaming in the blue-tingd darkness.  
“Maybe it’s time I reminded you, then.”  
THe knife digs in, cutting lines on the exposes flesh of your stomach. Your instinct is to flinch away, but he holds you steady til he’s finished his carving. His rough finger traces the bleeding, red lines on your skin, spelling out the word for you.  
“S-C-H-L-A-M-P-E.” He says, putting pressure on each cut. You do not need to speak German to understand - he’s used the word plenty around you. Its sound leaves a sour taste in your mouth as your wrap your clumsy tongue around it.  
“That’s right.” Strade croons. He pushes a strand of his disgusting hair out of his face with a sweeping gesture. “Hm, what else…. Ah.”  
A hand forces apart your legs, his thumb tracing along the deep gashes already there, crudely stitched up. For a moment, he dips his fingers between your legs, and you instinctively press your knees together, which earns you a warning grunt from Strade.  
He moves the blade. It carves another phrase into your inner thigh easily, with shakier hands, each letter punctuated with a heady groan. You can smell his musk, mixed with the pungent aroma of piss and coppery blood, and you gag a little. Thankfully, he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to.  
“Heh.”  
Once done, he traces the letters again, but this time, you don’t need him to spell it out for you. You can see the bleeding letters yourself, loudly proclaiming you as his property in rough, carved lines.  
It hurts.  
Strade smiles at you, baring his teeth. “Good job… you didn’t even scream. Kind of disappointing, actually, come to think about it.” He shifts his weight, his boot nudging your foot. You feel a shudder down your spine. “But I’ll take what I can get for now.”  
The chair creaks when he removes his weight from you. The laptop is turned off, the light flickers back on, stinging in your eyes. There is an awkward silence between you that he fills with his usual nasty grin, before fetching a cloth from a drawer. He wipes off the blood from the cuts he’s made, leaving them stinging faintly, like a million little papercuts spelling out his ownership over your body.  
Over you.  
“C’mon, buddy.” He says, as though you’d just spent a pleasant afternoon together at the bar. “Let’s get you back home.”  
When he reaches behind you, you can feel his hot breath on you, and the way his boy presses against yours makes you feel sick and threatened yet again. The cables come loose, though, and he picks you up again.  
“I hope you’ll learn.” Strade chides as he carries you back into your room. “I can’t have you fucking up any more recordings. I’ll let it slip this time, though.”  
You’re dropped on the mattress, and he brings his boot down on your stomach to keep you in place.  
“I bet you’re hungry.” He pulls out another of the kind of bland, sticky bars he’s been feeding you, tossing it at you. It hits you in the face, and you squint up at him. “Also, you smell like piss. Take a shower sometime.”  
He grins, stepping off of your stomach, then erupts into peals of laughter.  
“Enjoy dinner. I’ll be back.”  
He leaves the room, and you can hear him stomping up the stairs until you’re alone.  
Alone with your thoughts, the fresh cuts on your legs, and a sticky bar of grain and honey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German translations:  
> Schatzi: dear/darling, lit a smaller/cute form of 'treasure'  
> Schlampe: bitch/cunt, used as a slur especially
> 
> Additionally: I'm going to make the chapters a little longer soon, but as I said - I'm writing exposition here and trying to set the stage, sort of. I haven't really written anything chapter-y in a while (barring one other fic) so I'm trying to get used to the lengths again, whoops. Forgive me.


	3. Terrible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not porn, for once. I'm trying to move away from PWP and towards getting an actual plot down, but it's surprisingly hard, given the ... nature of the BTD game, haha. It doesn't necessarily lend itself to story progression, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really sexual here, but a lot of gore, so tread carefully! If you have issues with leg trauma, maybe skip this one.
> 
> I'm also currently trying to find a voice claim for Strade - thinking of maybe Till Lindemann (lead singer of Rammstein)? I am not... sure, hm. Regardless, I recommend this as mood music:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ato5NOl88O0 (The quality is bad but the lyrics are translated so.)
> 
> (Shoutout to Wednesday for helping me get through writing this.)

You do not see him again for three days.  
The third night you wake up from a noise behind the door of your room. Blinking into the darkness, you lay there, listening, still groggy from sleep. It’s a man's voice, but not Strade’s.  
“N-no, please, don’t-”  
There’s a sound of something heavy hitting concrete, and a loud cracking noise accompanying it. You wince as a scream tears through the darkness, causing you to freeze up. You cannot hear anything else behind the door, though, so you push off your covers and crawl slowly to the door, resting a hand and your head against it.  
“I’ll do anything!”  
“Anything?” You hear Strade say, teasingly, and the reality of the situation sinks in slowly. Your hand curls into a tight fist, knuckles turning white.  
The next thing you hear is another scream, sharp and pointed and loud, ending in a gurgling sound that has your blood run cold. There’s only dead silence after, and your own beating heart hammering in your chest-  
Heavy footfalls approach your door. Before you can move out of the way, it’s yanked open and you reel back in fear. Strade stands above you, his cheeks as red as the gore dripping from his front, and he’s wearing a grin that splits his face in half.  
“Did you hear anything?” He asks, kneeling on the floor before you. You do not respond, and his smile falters.  
“I asked if you heard anything, buddy.” He repeats, his smile only a grimace anymore. “Well?”  
“N-no.” You shake your head, wondering if he’d know you’re lying through your teeth. Strade barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the collar around your neck and pulling you up with him. You’re dragged back into the cellar, where the stench of fresh blood and meat is overwhelming.  
The light is turned on with a flick of Strade’s wrist, bright and stinging in your eyes, and it’s shed on what can only be described as the site of a massacre.  
The floor is flooded with a mixture of fluids, mostly blood that’s already dried enough to become a sticky mess when your hand touches it, but there’s… other things. A myriad of nails is strewn about. You have to be careful not to step into any of them as you move, still utterly transfixed by the sheer amount of gore he’s managed to splatter everywhere.  
But that’s not the worst thing by far.  
The pole in the middle of the room is occupied tonight. What you assume is a young man’s body is tied down on it, with the same kind of rope that’s been used on you previously. His legs are splayed out in front of him, his legs nailed on the concrete floor with what had to be at least three or four nails for each knee. Worse still, his throat is cut open, which explains the way Strade is dripping in gore at least.  
“Beautiful.” He says, hoarsely, voice clouded in lust. You scoot backwards, but he grabs your upper arm and drags you with him, up to the table where he keeps his table saw. You’re hoisted up, shifting to make sure to stay out of the way of the blade.  
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Strade’s voice is still heavy and full of a disgusting, twisted kind of desire you know can only be satisfied with blood. You shrug, not sure if he wants an answer. His hand finds its way into your hair, smearing drying blood and gore and small chucks of meat into your hair, already matted with all kinds of other filth.  
“Hey, I’m talking to ya.” He mumbles, his hand moving around your side. It’s like some kind of twisted version of a date, you briefly think. Instead of watching the sunset, though, you’re forced to stare at what looks like a surreal painting of a massacre. The light overhead flickers once, and you snap out of what feels like a trance.  
“H-hey.” His hand is on your hip now, then ssuddenly steadied against your upper leg. The gesture is almost tender, but you’ve learned to not trust him when he’s pretending to be kind anymore. Still, you can’t help but shiver, shoulders tensing a little. It’s nice to be treated with kindness, a soft touch amids threats of torture.  
“Was ist, Liebling?” He whispers, and you don’t know if he’s even aware he’s speaking German at this point. His hip on your side becomes almost painful, but you don’t say anything, trying to control your breathing instead.  
Everything smells like death here, the stench of copper so strong you have to swallow hard to keep from retching again.  
“Are you scared?” Strade whispers, his breath too close for comfort. “I could kill you right now. I’d only need to turn on this saw, and shred you… into small pieces. Hmmhmm.” He hums, still so, so close. “I bet that’s scary, eh? The thought how little you matter to me.”  
His tongue finds your neck, lapping over it slowly. It’s wet and warm and strangely comforting. You don’t immediately reply.  
“... maybe.” The sticky mess of gore on his front is a very tangible reminder - you could have been the young man on that pole, torn up beyond recognition. That collar is temporary - any time he grows bored of you, he’s ready to toss you aside for a newer, shinier toy, one that’ll make him more money, one that satisfies his perverse lust in a way your body and mind cannot.  
You draw your legs together. The power he’s holding over you is absolute, and it’s a little dizzying. Your life is in his hands, quite literally. The thought has you grow hot.  
“I would do it.” He admits, his voice deep, rough like his hands on your bare skin. “When I picked ya up, I had every intention of killing you that night. I hope you feel pretty special for that.”  
His voice is slurred, as though he’s been drinking, but all you smell is his musk and copper and a bit of motor oil on him. The rush of the blood, of the kill, you realise, has gotten to his head like alcohol.  
His fingers trace the fresh cuts on your stomach, pushing you back against the wood of the bench. They still hurt, and you wince when he digs his nails into one of the thin red lines. His grin is still hovering over you, the overhead light giving him a strange kind of halo around his head. Like some kind of angel. Weren’t those supposed to be terrifying, too? With too many eyes and teeth and claws, tearing through flesh, snapping bone-  
Too late you catch the glint of his knife in the light. He brings it down, faster than you can register it, and you wait for the dull pain spreading from your abdomen. But it never comes, and as you look to your side, you see the knife embedded in the wood. Strade moves away from you, his hands slipping from your naked body where his hands left sticky, red marks.  
“.. I almost forgot. I need to - I need to clean up.”  
You sit up, with some difficulty, and watch Strade gather something from the corner of the room. He looks different than you’re used to, as though the fire that usually burns behind those amber eyes suddenly went out.  
You brush over your stomach. Your cuts still hurt, and you feel a bit of blood where he’d dug his nails in, but otherwise, you’re… okay. Your brow furrows.  
“Are you... Are you okay?” Your voice shakes.  
Strade turns his head, tossing the rag he’s been using to dab at his front aside. “Yeah.” He replies, opening a drawer. You watch him pull out a hand saw, then kneel down on front of the the corpse, still tied to the pole. “I’m great, buddy. Why don’t you make yourself useful or something.”  
He sounds so bored with the whole situation. You slip off the bench, taking a step back, but keep a hand on the table. Your leg still can’t carry your weight.  
His lust is terrifying, but this is a thousand times more horrible. Watching him saw the limbs off his victim, tossing them aside, only briefly tilting his head to look at the man’s face - the cold, calculating feeling of it all has a shudder run down your back.  
This is worse than anything he’s put you through so far. There’s none of his usual happiness anymore, only silence as he undoes the binding on the wrists of his victim. The head comes off next, Strade looking at it as though it were no more interesting than any other piece of meat.  
“I don’t keep them very long, usually.” his attempt at jovial conversation comes across as half-hearted, and falls flat. “You’re special, buddy. Feel good about that?”  
You nod, shivering a little. The room is cold. Strade hacks away at the bone of the upper arm, finally deciding to snap it with a sickening crunch. “Caring for people isn’t my strong suit.”  
That’s an understatement, you think, watching him wrench the other arm out of the socket. Still, the unexpected kindness and sudden shift in demeanor has you uneasy, and you try and keep a bit of distance between you and Strade, still working on his victim’s body. He was chopping up the pieces now, spreading more gore around the room.  
“People around here, they think I’m a good guy. Amicable. Good neighbour. The kind you can trust with your kids and all that.” Apparently, he’s in the mood to tell a story, and you, with nowhere else to go, are stuck with him.  
“People are pretty dumb, especially if they’re drunk.” Your stomach twists at his words. He tosses aside the pieces of limbs, sitting up on his haunches. You can feel your heart beating against your ribs.  
“I like that. They’re easier to get a hold of if you butter them up. Kids, too. They stick to you, lap your words up like it’s gospel. Do parents not teach their kids-” He sets the saw aside. “Not to talk to strangers?”  
He glances at you, over his shoulder. The glint is back in his eyes, and you avoid his gaze by staring at the soiled floor. You don’t want to hear any more.  
“I should take you back to your room, actually.” Strade says, getting up. “No use is having you be in the way.”  
You agree, silently. The gore is making you sick, and you’d very much prefer if he’d just finish his gruesome task without telling you the details of his nightly play sessions. Especially if they involve children.  
Strade drags you back over to the door to your room, still left open, and tosses you down. This time, there’s no boot to kick you, and he turns to leave almost immediately. You bite your lip. You hate how he’s acting; if he at least stepped on you or something, you’d know things were okay.  
Well.  
Okay.  
As okay as they can be, here, with him.  
But Strade leaves without another word, closing and locking the door. You curl up on the soiled mattress that’s your bed, falling asleep to the smell of copper and sounds behind the closed door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was ist, Liebling? - What is it/is up, darling?


	4. Bubbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Here I am with another chapter of the neverending torture that is my fic.
> 
> We are moving into domestic territory, though of course with a special twist only Strade can supply. What else did you expect? 
> 
> I am still trying to write this in-between other things and art, and hoping to get stuff done faster. This chapter was actually half-done for about a month, but then stuff and things happened and I got sidetracked. My bad!

It’d have to have been at least a week since you came here. You stare at the ceiling, in the dark, hoping Strade will visit you tonight. You’ve laid awake here for what felt like hours, listening for the telltale sign of boots stomping down the stairs to the cellar. But all that’s been there so far is dead silence, heavy on your eardrums.  
Nothing else.  
You feel for the metal around your neck, sighing. Maybe he’s not coming tonight. Maybe he’s just going to leave you to starve here. Maybe he plans to get rid himself of you that way. You roll over so that you’re on your side, tucking one arm under your head.  
One of those terrible energy bars sound very good right now.

 

You’re jerked out of an unstable dream by a kick to the shin that sends you reeling back. Your eyes snap open, and the first thing that swims into view is a very bright smile above you.  
Strade laughs. You’re happy he’s back to his usual self, at least. No emotions is worse than unabashed glee, you find.  
Tonight, he’s wearing a plain white shirt, a departure from his usual button-up green one. It looks nice on him, you decide as you rub your eyes. He runs a hand through your hair, almost gently.  
“Good morning, buddy.” He says, rather jovially, and gives your hair a tug. He’s clean today, you note, but smells of motor oil more than usual. Kneeling in front of you, he gives you a once-over, brows knitting.  
“Good morning.” You say, very well behaved. He seems pleased with you for now, his frown softening.  
“So, I’ve been thinking.” He licks his lips, getting up and heading for the door. Apparently, he expects you to follow him. You make a good effort, trying to put as little weight on your injured foot as possible.  
“We’ve been getting closer, I think.”   
If he wanted to call it that. Kidnapping was not a relationship. Strade holds the door open for you, and you start to question his motives. “And I’m thinking, see, I’m thinking - it’s not like you can leave without frying your pretty head. So…”  
Ah. Yes. When he put that thing on you, he explained how it’d work - an electric collar that’d send a shock through you the second you stepped out of the perimeter of his house. He’d looked sullen saying that, admitting he didn’t want to kill you anymore, as though getting attached to you somehow soured the mood.  
You grimace when you set down your foot and pain shoots up your leg. To your great surprise, Strade stops and waits for you to catch up.  
“Your foot again?” He asks, and you nod, tensing as you think of the last time he asked this. His response is as sudden as it is unexpected; he picks you off the floor, holding you bridal style. The comparison to a very strange date comes back to mind. You cling to him a little tighter, and he grunts a bit in response.  
You are headed up the stairs, leaving the basement behind you. The rest of the house is … well. Remarkably unremarkable, really. It’s large, from what you can tell, very nicely furnished, and looks like the kind of house you’d expect your neighbour to have.  
Not Strade. Not the crazy man with the strange smile and unwashed hair, no. You rest your head against his chest, drawing in a sharp breath. You remember the night you met him, and how kind and nice and warm and open he’d felt. His house is the same way, you realise - perfectly fine and clean, until one looked a little closer.  
There’s something to be learned here, you’re sure.  
Strade only lets go of you when you’re in the bathroom. Again, it’s unremarkable at best, you note. Sitting you down on the edge of the tub, he leans over to open the faucet. Well…  
“Strade?”  
“Yes?” He sounds genuinely concerned, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. This had to be some kind of trap, like the time he offered you a choice in matters. It had to be some kind of messed-up game - was he going to drown you? Boil you alive? Poison you, somehow, or bleed you out?  
“Nothing.” You were not going to mess with the proverbial gift horse, here. Strade was unstable enough without questioning his motives and setting him off.  
He motions for you to slip in once the water filled the tub, and you oblige, hissing briefly when the warm water washes over the numerous cuts and bruises on your body. Strade himself sits down on the toilet cover, arms crossed in front of him. “You look cute.” He admits, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.  
You shrug your shoulders, not sure what to say - cute enough to keep as a pet, forced to obey his every deranged whim, yes? Cute enough to fuck, maybe. You splash some water on your chest, the small cuts spelling profanity on your stomach burning. Your teeth worry at you bottom lip. At least the water is nice, an opportunity to wash off almost two weeks’ worth of grime and dirt. A small silver lining, you muse, sighing.  
“As I was saying.” Strade goes on, shifting in his seat. You scoop a bit of the water up to wash your hair also and listen.  
“I think we should stop with the whole… the…” He waves a hand, and you frown. “What I’m saying is, I won’t be keeping you in the basement anymore. We’re past that.”  
Oh. Your hand shakes a little when you try to rinse your hair out again.  
“Instead, I think you’ll be sleeping with me.”  
The handful of water you were about to move splashes into the tub, and you rest against the cold back of it. It feels as though he knocked the wind out of you - the very last thing you want is to spend more time around this dangerous psychopath.  
Strade seems utterly delighted at the very thought, however, clasping his hands together. His usual smile is on his face and he looks happier than you’ve seen him in days. “I think it’ll really help with our relationship.” He goes on, oblivious to your terror. He gets up, stepping over to the tub.  
“I do notice you don’t seem to be interested in bathing anymore, Liebchen.” He says, resting an arm on the tub. Your shoulders square, and you nervously shimmy away from him.  
“Do you need help?”  
Before you can as much as shake your head, he rests both hands on your head, pushing you under the water with surprising force. You take a deep breath, panicking when you taste the grimy bath water, but he doesn’t let up. You can see him above you, distorted from the water, grinning while he keeps your head underwater. Bubbles rise up from your mouth. You want to scream, to fight, to kick at him, to force him to let up, but lack of oxygen makes your head swim. Darkness creeps towards you out of the corners of your eyes.  
The very last thing you see is Strades’ smile.

 

You wake up somewhere dark, soft, and far too comfortable to question. Eyes tightly shut, you reach around in the dark, finally grasping something soft and warm. An animal? A pillow?  
Your questions are answered when the ‘pillow’ gives a grunt of pain at your prodding fingers. You almost recoil.  
“Ow.” Strade slaps your hands away, his hold you you getting a little tighter. This must be his bed, and he must have not killed you earlier. Your throat still hurts, though, and your head throbs when you think of the water.  
“I was wondering when you’ wake up.” Strade mutters, adjusting himself against you. To your great relief, he’s wearing his shirt and pants. His hold on you is still tight, and uncomfortable at that.  
You can see the room is dark, the kind of darkness that comes from night, not just the blinds being drawn. So it had to be evening, or even night. You suddenly realise that you do not know what time it is - you have not known for almost a week, or more. Briefly, you consider asking Strade, who seems to be drifting off again, but immediately banish the thought from your frazzled mind.  
All things considered, though, this is nice. You can feel you are naked, of course, save for that collar, but the bed is soft and he’s warm and smells of something nice that has your stomach growling. You realise you also haven’t eaten in a while, and again consider asking him. Again, you stop yourself before you can open your mouth for fear of his reaction. Apart from that, you find yourself getting a little drowsy and anyway… you do not want to question his sudden kindness, just enjoying it for now.  
You may regret it later, of course, like any time he has pretended to be kind in the past, but as heavy as your body feels, you are far, ar too tired to give this much thought.  
Maybe … tomorrow, you think, briefly, before drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, German translation.
> 
> Liebchen - lovely, dear, things of this nature.
> 
> I am a native speaker, by the way, and you would not be believe how hard it is to pick parts for him to say in German without making it sound and feel off.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick translation for the German bits:
> 
> Schatz: essentially dear, literally 'treasure'  
> Du kleine Schlampe, kotz mir ja nicht vor - vor die Füße: 'You little bitch had better not throw up on me/my feet.'


End file.
